Pieces
by Izuru Kamukura
Summary: A series of drabbles concerning a fiery crow and a certain monkey.
1. Musings

It was just a normal day for them, Saruhiko decided, idly sipping the milk that he'd offered to drink for Misaki. (And even if it wasn't, he would make it normal).

("Che, I can't stomach this shit, Saru." Misaki feigns a retch and dangles the milk away from him, pinched gingerly between his index finger and thumb. Saruhiko looks on in mild annoyance.

But Misaki is Misaki. _When is Misaki _never _Misaki?_

With a defeated sigh, he waves his hand and Misaki's face stretches in triumph.

"Brat. Give it to me, Misaki." And he wastes not a second, immediately pitching himself forward, more than ready to present the milk that he found so "disgusting" to Saruhiko.

"...Really?!" He was about to shove the carton in Saruhiko's hands until the bespectacled youth raised a silencing palm.

"...But." His fingers coil until a single index finger is raised and he brandishes his bento in all of its "splendor" (this time, Saruhiko couldn't help but stifle a retch as bile rose in his throat), and gives it a wiggle, the leftover vegetables that he barely touched scattering. "...you have to eat these." He watches Misaki's frozen expression with a slight smirk.

"...Well?" Misaki scrutinizes the vegetables with eyes squinted in hesitation.

"Hmm..." He hums, as if he's actually in thought. Saruhiko scoffs slightly. Was there really any need for a charade? Even he knew that Misaki would eventually...

After a couple of beats, Misaki comically taps his chin thrice in thought and answers with a playful scowl. "...Fair enough," he mutters, as they make their exchange.)

But Misaki was Misaki. _When is Misaki _never _Misaki?_

And Saruhiko was Saruhiko.

And all was right with their world.

With a lazy drawl (because him? Expressive? Unheard of) "...Oi, Misaki."

In the middle of a spirited - and somewhat crass - explanation (but this was Misaki he was talking to so it never really made much of a difference anymore - he reasoned that Misaki's way of speech was just a means of compensating for his pathetic height), Misaki gave him a confused look. _What was he even going on about this time?_

"- huh? What?"

For a moment, just like what always happened before Misaki spoke to him, he found himself rendered speechless by the energy that he exuded. _You're too bright, _he wanted to say.

"Why - ?" he started, settling on that instead. Yet, still, it nipped at him.

_You're too bright,_ he _wanted_ to say. But he bit the inside of his cheek and scowled instead. He was good at scowling.

("Geez, Saru. Why don't you smile a little more? You're such a depressing guy. And you're always slouching too. That can't be good for your back!"

"Oh, I don't know, Misaki - why don't you _grow_ just a couple more inches? The reason I have such bad posture is because I have to slouch just to _speak_ with you."

"Wh-What!? What the hell did you say?! It was a fucking suggestion, you shitty monkey!")

And Misaki just stood there - oblivious as always to his inner turmoil. But maybe that's what he liked the most about Misaki - how everything he did pulsed with honesty, though brutal, how everything that he did was governed by his heart, and not his mind.

He couldn't do that, no matter how much he tried. (And he had tried. Ever since he met Misaki, he had tried.)

And in retrospect, he didn't even need to. Misaki felt enough for the both of them.

Even now, Misaki granted him a curious expression, "Wha - ?"

With the slightest of smiles, Saruhiko shook his head.

"It's nothing."


	2. Wounds

**1**

Misaki wouldn't calm down for anything, not even for hasty promises offered by their King.

("He-he really did it, didn't he?"  
Misaki was met with silence. "That fucking bastard...!"  
"I - "  
His eyes were manic, unable to focus. They darted from person to person, object to object. Anna reached out futilely, her hand freezing midair when she saw the look in Misaki's eyes change.  
She knew that they were searching for something. Some_one._  
And they could not find it.  
Misaki, realizing this, pressed his palm to his face, looking only through the spaces between his fingers with widening eyes.  
And he started breathing.  
Wait.  
That wasn't right.)

He'd responded with an angry exhale, a couple of choice curses and stormed out of Bar HOMRA, the grinding of his skateboard's wheels trailing behind him, leaving behind a trail of tainted red that only Anna could see.

(Misaki started gasping for air, for words, for anything, anything, anything -  
And everyone could only watch.  
"F-Fuck this!"  
"That damn monkey!"  
"That _traitor."_  
"Just - just...He can go to fucking hell for all I care!"  
With each word he choked out, each bordering on a sob, Anna's hand retracted, corresponding with her fracturing heart -  
And his broken one.  
"I _hate_ him."  
And then it broke. It broke for Misaki.  
And with that, Anna's arm dropped limply to her side. She clutched her chest and only watched as Misaki left, the door slamming shut with a resounding thud that vibrated in her bones...  
But above all, was the startling state of his lovely red (although no one could ever hold a candle to Mikoto's), that made Anna's jaw slacken in shock -  
Muddled and cloudy with grief.)

She sat at the bar in her usual silence, but didn't dare breathe louder than a mouse. The entire bar was silent - Izumo stood solemnly, idly wiping wine glasses and methodically placing them on shelves. He was feigning apathy. She could tell. Izumo's heart was hurting for Yata. For Saruhiko.

For the both of them.

Rikio stood, his face a mixture of uncertainty and pain. His pain was like Misaki's. (But that was hardly farther from the truth; no one could feel pain like Misaki could).

Like any friend would, he'd tried to console him, but Misaki weakly swatted his arm away with a flimsy lift of his hand (his other hand, rubbing furiously at his eyes and - oh. Were those tears?) and cursed loudly before snatching his skateboard from its usual perch and taking off like the free bird he was.

Except now, he wasn't free. Instead, he was caught up in the chains of his own sorrow.

Mikoto sat in the seat next to her, and she chanced occasional glances at him. Although he didn't show it too expressively, she knew that he cared.

Even Mikoto was worried about Yata.

Tatara leaned up against the bar, next to his array of hobbies and knick-knacks, idly playing with his camera. The look on his face pained Anna the most. Tatara wasn't Tatara if he wasn't smiling. And he wasn't smiling now. He looked to be deep in thought; she could see his red - it mirrored Misaki's perfectly.

The others were out doing who knows what. It was their way of coping, she decided. Saruhiko wasn't that well-liked among the members, but he was still HOMRA. He was still family.

_Well, I suppose,_ she decided humorlessly, _not anymore._

She bowed her head - everyone was in a daze, stuck in their own little world - so she would do the same. Yata was taking it hard enough as it was.

But Misaki was scary when he was angry, she had to admit - feral.

And he wasn't even that angry. He was quick to anger, Anna knew, but this time was different.

Misaki was hurting.

His heart was bleeding. She could tell by the way his red pulsed through the air around him; he didn't bother to contain his feelings. Even now, she could see the memories of his red affecting the rest of his crimson comrades - his pain becoming hers, his wounds affecting everyone.

But this was to be expected. Misaki and Saruhiko had been friends for a very long time.

Big brother Misaki was stupid, that much was obvious. Given the signs, Saruhiko was going to leave sooner or later.

And yet, knowing this...

She'd have preferred it to be later.


	3. Wounds - 2

**2**

There was always something in Misaki and Saruhiko's relationship dynamic that made Anna smile. Be it the boisterous intensity that Misaki always greeted Saruhiko with (usually accompanied by a couple of profanities here and there, to and fro - all in good fun), or the biting, but fond, retorts that Saruhiko always had ready to draw from his arsenal of snark against the other's stupid ideas.

They were merely another reason why being in HOMRA was so..._fun_, a bright piece of HOMRA's exquisite puzzle. Yet now...

(A little girl sits in a room, attempting to complete a picture. Accounting for her inability to distinguish color (her world is otherwise filled with black and white and shades of grey; and the most loveliest of reds), she pinches a red marble with the thumb and index fingers of her right hand, and holds it up to her right eye. Ah, there it is. Color.

She has the pieces scattered over the marble countertop, arranged in various piles that, to her, meet certain criteria -  
_Oh, that has to go there -_  
- _Eh? Hmm, this one is -_  
_That looks like it fits together..._  
_...Maybe not._

The bartender looks on, idly lights a cigarette, hums a familiar tune (that pretty one that a certain fair-haired man had sung at her request that one time), and takes to rubbing his precious flutes to a glaring shine a couple more times, for his benefit.

The little girl gets to work.

Piece by piece, the puzzle comes together -  
_tap tap_  
Bit by bit, her hands continue in a methodical sequence, reflexively reaching for the piles, withdrawing a single piece each time -  
_tap tap_  
The piles are dwindling in volume, the picture begins to surface, and -  
She can make out their faces. Their smiles. HOMRA.  
_tap tap_  
Ah, there he is. Mikoto. The amusement, lazy and ever so weary, dancing in his eyes.  
_tap tap_  
And there's Totsuka. A hand rested on his King's shoulder, his antique video camera held in the other one.  
_tap_  
Izumo stood on the other side of Mikoto, his eyes warm and nurturing like they always are. Like they are now.

The bartender lets out a little chuckle, turning his attention away from his pristinely shelved glasses, "How's that puzzle going?"  
The girl hmms in approval, "...good."

_tap tap tap tap_  
Dewa, and Chitose, and Fujishima, and Eric. Dewa's exasperated face contrasted nicely with Chitose's flirtatious air, Fujishima was attempting to convince an embarrassed Eric to crack a smile.  
_tap tap tap_  
How could she forget Shouhei and Bandou? She could imagine the story that Shouhei could've been telling, just from looking at the small image of a grudgingly interested Bandou, Shouhei's arm hung over his neck in over-familiarity.  
_tap tap_  
Oh, and there was Rikio. He had his arm around someone; she was positive that she needed to further complete the picture to find out who. Her hands hovered over the remaining pile, which was by now only three pieces deep.  
_tap...tap_  
Misaki! There was Misaki, his eyes crinkled in ecstatic energy. The grin on his face seemed to stretch for miles. Rikio's arm was strung around Misaki's neck, yet Misaki's arm was wrapped around another person's...she could make out blue fabric, a couple of stray hairs - but who was that person that Misaki looked so eager towards?

She had to know.

_tap_

Hmm...who could...that be?

Her hand grabbed for the last piece, to complete the puzzle.

"Eh?"

But - )

...Saruhiko was missing.


End file.
